by the way. I’m particular about coffee.”
“Me, too,” she agreed. “I live on it.”
He led her to his truck. He reached in and pulled out a wheel gun, a .38 caliber revolver. “This is easier to use than an automatic,” he told her. “It’s forgiving. The only downside is that you only get six shots. So you have to learn not to miss.”
“I don’t know if I can hold a pistol steady anymore,” she said dubiously.
He pulled out a target shaped like a man’s head and torso. “We’ll work on that.”
She frowned. “I thought targets had circles inside circles.”
“In law enforcement, we use these,” he replied solemnly. “If we ever get into a shootout, we need to be able to place shots in a small pattern.”
The target brought home the danger she was in, and the unpleasant thought that she might have to put a bullet in another human being.
“In World War I, they noticed that the soldiers were deliberately aiming over or past the enemy soldiers when they shot at them,” he told her. “So they stopped using conventional targets and started using these.” He stuck it in the ground in front of a high bank, moved back to her, opened the chamber and started dropping bullets in. When he had six in the chamber, he closed it.
“It’s a double action revolver. That means if you squeeze the trigger, it fires. The trigger is tight, so you’ll have to use some strength to make it work.” He handed it to her and showed her how to hold it, with the butt and trigger in her right hand while she supported the gun with her left hand.
“This is awkward,” she murmured.
“It’s a lot to get used to. Just point it at the target and pull the trigger. Allow for it to kick up a little. Sight down the barrel. Line it up with the tip on the end of the barrel. Now fire.”
She hesitated, afraid of the noise.
“Oops. I forgot. Here.”
He took the pistol, opened the chamber, laid it on a fallen log. Then he dug into his pocket for two pairs of foam earplugs.
“You roll these into cones and stick them in your ears,” he instructed. “They’ll dull the noise so it doesn’t bother you. Honest.”
She watched him and parroted his actions. He picked up the pistol, closed the chamber, and handed it back to her with a nod.
She still hesitated.
He took it from her, pointed it at the target and pulled the trigger.
To her surprise, the noise wasn’t loud at all. She smiled and took the pistol back from him. She squeezed off five shots. Three of them went into the center of the target in a perfect pattern.
“See what you can do when you try? Let’s go again,” he said with a grin and began to reload it.
TWO HOURS LATER, she felt comfortable with the gun. “Are you sure you won’t get in trouble for loaning me this?” she asked.
“I’m sure.” He looked around her property. The house was all alone on a dirt road. There were mountains behind them and a small stream flowing beyond the yard. There were no close neighbors.
“I know it’s isolated,” she said. “But I’ve got Jock.”
He glanced toward the dog, lying asleep on the porch. “You need something bigger.”
“He has big teeth,” she assured him.
“Would you consider moving to town?”
She shook her head. “I refuse to run scared…and I love the peace and solitude out here.”
He grimaced. “Well, I’ll see what I can come up with for protection.”
“On your budget? They’ll suggest a string attached to a lot of bells,” she replied with a chuckle.
“Don’t I know it. But I’ll work on it. Listen, if you need me, you just call. The sheriff’s department can find me, anytime.”
He was really concerned. It made her feel warm. “Thanks, Drake. I really mean it,” she added.
“What are friends for?” he teased. “Oh. Almost forgot.” He opened the truck and handed her two boxes of shells. “That should do the trick.”
“You have to tell me how much it is. I’m not letting you buy my ammunition,” she added firmly. “I get a salary, too, you know.”
“It’s probably less than mine,” he muttered.
“We’ll have to compare notes sometime. Go on. Tell me.”
“I’ll tell you Monday,” he promised. “See you at your office. Okay?”
“Okay. Thanks again.”
“No problem. You keep your doors locked and that dog inside with you,” he added. “He’s no good to you if somebody gets to him first.”
“Good point.” She nodded.
He gave her a last concerned look, climbed into his truck and waved as he sped off down the road, leaving a trail of dust behind him.
Phoebe opened the chamber of the pistol, stuck the ammunition in her pockets, and went back inside with Jock right beside her.
SHE WASN’T REALLY AFRAID until night came. Then every small sound became magnified in her head. She heard footsteps. She heard voices. Once, she fancied she heard singing, in Cherokee of all things!
She gave up trying to sleep about five in the morning, got up and made coffee. She sat at the kitchen table with her head in her hands, and suddenly remembered the file she’d made at her office about things she recalled from her conversation with the murder victim. She’d meant to bring it home and give it to Drake, and she’d forgotten. She’d have to try to remember when he came by her office.
There was an odd sound in the distance again, like soft singing, in Cherokee. Puzzled, she got up and went to the door and looked out, but there was nothing there. She laughed to herself. She must be going nuts.
Phoebe left for work a half hour early. As she pulled out onto the main highway, she had a glimpse of an SUV parked on the side of the road opposite her driveway. A man was sitting in it, looking at a map. In the old days, she’d have stopped and asked if he needed help finding something. Now, she didn’t dare.
She drove to the museum with her mind only half on the highway. She wondered if she should call her aunt and tell her what was going on. But Derrie would only worry and try to make her quit the job and move to Washington. She wasn’t willing to do that. She was making a life for herself here.
When she got into her office, she pulled up the small file she’d written, detailing her conversation with the dead man, and she printed it out. As an afterthought, she copied it onto a floppy disk and put it in a plastic case for Drake. Perhaps something she recalled would help the investigation and solve the crime.
She was inclined to discount the man’s story about Neanderthal remains, however. If there had been such a presence anywhere in North America, surely it would have been discovered in the past century.
DRAKE STOPPED BY LATE that afternoon with news about the investigation.
“The FBI guy may be a scoundrel, but he’s sure at the top of his game professionally,” he remarked with an impressed smile. “He’s already turned up some interesting clues.” He held up a hand. “I really can’t tell you,” he said at once, anticipating questions. “I’m in enough trouble already.”
“For what?” she asked, aghast.
“It would take too long to tell you. I’ve asked the guys to